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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508406">can you hear me?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/droppingdroplets/pseuds/droppingdroplets'>droppingdroplets</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hallucinations, This is just an exploration of that concept, Tommy's mind starts playing tricks on him because he hasn't got any better coping mechanisms, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), You know that moment where Tommy sees Tubbo and thinks he's seeing things?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:53:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/droppingdroplets/pseuds/droppingdroplets</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>People don't come to visit Tommy often in exile. He finds himself entertaining plenty of conversations anyway.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ranboo &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>200</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>can you hear me?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Canon-typical content warnings from the exile arc apply: there are references to suicidal thoughts, manipulation and just the general deterioration of Tommy's mental state.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>T</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>ommy doesn’t have much of a gift for hindsight. He never has (and he doubts he ever will), but for the first time in his life he finds himself trying to make up for his years lacking it, trying to find </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>some</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> form of sense. His hands are </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>still</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> numb. His ears are </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>still</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> ringing. He keeps waiting for the world to shift into focus; to find the turning point and finally place himself in his circumstances, but </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>with the details made fuzzy by the miles between home and the days passing him by, he’s left unconvinced </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>by his own reality. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>No matter how many times he tries, he can’t quite manage to piece his </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>situation</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> together, thoughts still stuck in the past-tense: </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>If he exiles me… </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Tommy doesn’t have much of anything, currently. He has unfulfilled hopes and holes in his shirt; hands full of scrap</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>e</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>s and a place lacking home. He has given so much to L’manburg (his discs, his lives, his </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>friends</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>) – he doesn’t understand why now, of all times, it </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>has</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> decide</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>d</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> he has something more to take. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>(</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Was that his mistake? Declaring, thinking,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> wanting</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> any of </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>it</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> to be his?)</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Anything that he’d </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>tried to carry with him</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> is destroyed in minutes. Tommy doesn’t have much of a gift for hindsight, but he does have one for foresight. Always thinking ahead, never looking back – he hadn’t waited with only hope to keep him company, he’d</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> made plans</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. He’d sorted through his chests</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>, </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>he’d set aside a spot in his end-chest for his leverage, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>he’d carried the uncertainty; </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>just in case</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’d planned, even if he hadn’t planned for</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> this</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy starts exile with nothing. His plans go up in smoke; a </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>moment relived, a story to be retold.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>In spite of this, there are some things Tommy carries with him </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>into</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> exile that Dream can’t take away. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>He still has a disc’s melody beaten into his heart, </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>and the sound of it calls to him when he takes a moment to listen. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>He has the remnants of his brother and the words shared between them: </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>this won’t be forever, we’re going to go back</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. He has his memories. He has his hope. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>He makes himself tools and promises; resolving without a doubt to never break them.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>H</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>e has the sentence of exile, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It’s</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> a new weight, like chains around his ankles, but it’s light in comparison to the years behind him, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and he’d rather something over nothing</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. He carries it stubbornly – if this is all he has left he’s going to make the most of it, even if he can’t bring himself to look it in the eye, only staring ahead at something far behind him.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>H</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>is hands are shaking. A chill settles over them, and the veins of blue in his hands bleeds like paint across his skin. Wilbur’s ghost meets his gaze with a small smile, and Tommy would suddenly give </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>anything</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> for the chance to hold his brother again; real, and whole, and unbroken. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>But he has nothing left to give, and instead he’s forced to listen as his brother tilts his head </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>and asks</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, “Do you not like it? I actually </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>really</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> do, I think it looks very nice – especially now that it’s daytime!”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>What did you even </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>do</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>?” Tommy asks, squinting through his brother. It’s early, enough that he’s almost shivering with the bitter chill of the wind, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and tries not to wonder if Wilbur misses sleep. The grass at his feet is a strange puzzle of mismatched colours, but it’s only a minor detail in comparison to the new decorations on the stripped logs outlining Logstedshire. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He has yet to actually stand inside and take a close look, unable to stomach the thought of resigning himself once more to walls. “Actually – why? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>How?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Just – tell me – what even </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>is it?” </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>It’s a painting!” Wilbur declares, then pauses. “Well, technically </span></span>
  <span>
    <span>I suppose it’d be a</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> mural – do you know what that is, Tommy? Have you ever seen one?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Of course I’ve seen one,” Tommy says. “I’m looking at one right now.” </span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>I</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>f anything it’s technically a collage</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>; there are traces of handprints in vivid colours and leaves that pattern themselves into an endless wind</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. It looks rather childish; Tommy scowls at what looks to be an image of Technoblade, and focuses instead on the little map outlined near the wall’s peak. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>L’manburg </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>is marked with a little blue dot.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Do you like it?” Wilbur asks, waving his hands to properly show it off. “I was working on it last night, and I’m quite happy with it.”</span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>It’s alright,” Tommy says. “What are you going to do when it rains though? Won’t it all get washed away?”</span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Wilbur hums, “Oh! Probably. I don’t know, I think I might just do another one. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>What do you think?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>I think if you do it again you should leave my tent out of it,” Tommy says, well aware that the white sheets must look like the best canvas around. “Just do it here, right? Leave my things alone.” </span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Okay,” Wilbur says. “Do you want to help me next time?” </span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>What?” </span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Wilbur nods to his hands; still stained with blue. Still shaking, but only when he looks close enough. “Do you want to help me? It’s rather relaxing, and you look like you could use some of that.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Oh, I do, do I?” Tommy says. “Well, look at my lips: </span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I don’t</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. I’d rather punch the wall than paint it, if I wanna relax I’d do something </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>less boring</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I don’t do so well with standing still for a long while, and that’s all that painting really is, right?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>T</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>ommy tries to imagine otherwise and finds himself at a loss. His hands itch with familiarity, but not at the mental picture of Wilbur just a few hours prior, his mind instead turning to the cavern walls, where his handprints mark the walls from excursions that had earned him handfuls of coal. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Why don’t you join me next time and we’ll find out?” </span></span>
  <span>
    <span>Wilbur asks, “</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>Maybe you’ll like it! And if you don’t, you can… I don’t know, tell me what to paint instead. Oh! You could help me collect the colours. I have a lot of blue, but there are other colours.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>I know that,” Tommy mutters.</span></span>
</p>
<p><span>“</span><span><span><span>Well, it can’t hurt to be sure.” Wilbur says, bouncing on his toes as he points at this map. “Most of them are in this forest over here; there’s purple and there’s orange and there’s </span></span></span><span><span><span>green</span></span></span> <span><span><span>–</span></span></span><span><span><span>” </span></span></span></p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy doesn’t listen much to the rest of it; he can always ask to hear it later. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>In the meantime h</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>e takes a step closer just to get a better look at the details – the ocean has been remade at the bottom of the walls, a frame for the images up on the wall like household photos. He recognizes a lot of it, if only vaguely – or perhaps he’s only finding familiar things because he doesn’t know how to stop looking for it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur’s hands talk with him, steady and sure. Tommy stays quiet, looking down at his own.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’ll help you find your stupid colours,” Tommy declares. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur frowns, “You aren’t interested in painting?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>We’ve just been over this, why would I be? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Collecting your colours sounds better than doing this with them,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>” Tommy admits, casting one last glance at the mural before turning on his heel and walking away. Wilbur might’ve mentioned it while he wasn’t listening, but Tommy remembers the part of the shore where the squids surface, and aside from coal that’s the best source of black he knows. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He hasn’t bothered gathering much from the surface yet, uncertain what to do with most of the things he finds. Now is a good time as any to start figuring it out. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> “I wouldn’t know what to paint anyway.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur doesn’t call out after him. Tommy’s left alone with empty thoughts, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>but that’s okay. The mural has given him an idea, and he has the time to spare on getting enough ink for the both of them. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ahead of him, the sun rises higher. Tommy walks towards it, planning for the day ahead, and hopes that his hands will have stopped shaking by the time it comes to write. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Where are we going?” Wilbur asks. Tommy almost skips a step </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>in surprise as Wilbur walks alongside him, content and unhurried. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Don’t just leave me in the silence like that and then start making sound with no warning,” Tommy says. “You don’t – huh, you don’t even have </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>footsteps</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, you’re a bit freaky, you know?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Oh,” Wilbur hums softly, as if he hadn’t thought of that before. He continues, drawing out the note, and smiles proudly as Tommy’s shoulders relax. “It is a bit quiet here, isn’t it?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>It is,” Tommy agrees. “So don’t keep doing that to me, alright? I don’t want to die out here from a fucking heart attack of all things.” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>So where we are going then?” Wilbur asks, and </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>this</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> is the kind of environment Tommy thrives on: conversational. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Well, Wilbur.” Tommy says, “We are going to go find some squids, and then we’re going to get some ink, and </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>then</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> I’m going to make a to-do list with it. It’s gonna be great. We can add collecting your colours onto it, and I think I have a few things in mind on top of that as well.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur nods. “Okay,” He says, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and sets their pace with his mindless humming,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> and that’s that. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Together, they continue.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It’s all he needs.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>&lt;&gt;</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy has more time to himself than ever before. He doesn’t know how to spend it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He finds himself, more often than not, revisiting old memories. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He relives the moment on the wall until he’s sick of it; he looks for days long past him. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He catches himself muttering commentary under his breath, continuing things that have been long left unfinished – </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>sometimes, he wonders how Wilbur can stand forgetting so much; sometimes, Tommy hates to remember at all. Somehow, they find a middle-ground: Tommy listens to memories he isn’t sure Wilbur could remember when he was alive, and Wilbur listens to memories until Tommy’s voice dies out on him. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he’d reminisced with someone. He’s not sure how to feel about it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’s halfway through mimicking the defensive tone of Tubbo’s voice as they’d debated conspiracy theories on the origins of the world when a new voice joins them, “What are you two even talking about?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo!” Tommy yells, trying to disguise the way he’d startled. The adrenaline stings – he’s no longer used to it, no longer ready for people to show up with no warning. He’d given up on waiting; </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Dream comes during the day and Wilbur stays with him at night. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“How are you, my man? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Were you eavesdropping on us?</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>No,” Ranboo says, then pauses. “Well, maybe a little, but not intentionally. Otherwise I think I’d know what this conversation is about. Hi, by the way.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Hello Ranboo,” Wilbur waves. “We’re talking about whether or not you could control the world, and what you’d do if you </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>could</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo looks no less confused, but obliges them in taking a seat by the furnace serving as their campfire. “Is changing your voice really on the same level as world domination?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What?” Tommy says, “No! Actually, maybe? No, no, </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>you’ve got the wrong idea here, see,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> I was talking as Tubbo, ‘cause he was saying all the shit about, like – do you think you count as part of the world, Ranboo?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Uh. Yes?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>So if you could control </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>any part of</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> the world, and you decided to make everything go faster, do you think </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>you would also go faster</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, or do you think the world would actually go faster </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>for</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> you</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I think,” Ranboo starts, and he at least has the grace to think about it very hard for all of a second. “</span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>That I did not come </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>prepared</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> for this kind of question. I don’t think I get it.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Me either,” Tommy agrees, nodding sagely to himself. </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He maintains the focus of it for less than a second before forgetting it in a hurry, leaning forwards with a delighted laugh. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>What are you doing here anyway? You haven’t said! Are you going to be staying long, or is that too much to ask?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’ll stay if you want me.” Ranboo says, </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>giving in to the uncertainty in his expression </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>as he adds, “Did Tubbo come and visit you then?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>T</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>ommy goes still. “No.” He says, all traces of laughter gone. “What gave you that impression?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Oh,” Ranboo says, looking between the two. “You were just… what you were saying…”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I wouldn’t have to speak as him if he bothered to show up, would I?” Tommy huffs. “’</span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Cause then he’d </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>be here</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> and I wouldn’t have to -” The tension of his words pulls taut and then slacken, leaving behind an exhausted slump to his shoulders. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“It was a conversation we had a long time ago. Nothing new.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>We’re talking about things we remember,” Wilbur says, oblivious to the strained atmosphere. “Not really the big things – the little things. The knick-knack memories. The ones that’re getting dusty in the brain attic, we’re undusting them.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Oh,” Ranboo says, this time with less weight. “That’s nice.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Is it?” Tommy asks. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Well – I just meant, I don’t really have a history to sort of talk about like that,” Ranboo says </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>quietly. Wilbur makes a vague sound of agreement, nodding along, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“And if I did I probably wouldn’t be able to remember it that well unless I had it written down.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy considers that. “Oh,” He says, slowly. Then, hesitantly, “Do you remember if Tubbo talks about me?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Sometimes,” Ranboo admits. “He hasn’t forgotten you – he still thinks about you – he’s just… busy.” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Busy,” Tommy echoes. “You must be very not busy then, if you’re here.” </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He laughs, tremulous and bitter, and cradles his head in his hands, “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>We must not even look like friends to you, right?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo winces, “No, you do. You look like you care, a lot, and that all of this is hurting you. Both of you.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy sits on that, for a long moment. The silence is filled by Wilbur’s humming, but it’s no less awkward for it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>It wasn’t always like this,” Tommy says, gesturing to their surroundings. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo glances around – at Logstedshire, which h</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>as outgrown the roots it started with; at its inhabitants, who have made a place within it. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“I know,” He says, with a small smile. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Why don’t you tell me about it? I – uh, everyone back there is always busy with other stuff, and I don’t really know a lot about… anything. L’manburg. It’s people. I feel like I should, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>it gets awkward.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>W</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>ilbur nods again. For a moment he looks less like a ghost and more like a memory, lost in his own world instead of everyone else’s. “It does, doesn’t it? There’s a lot of history there, with them. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Some of its still in the making, you don’t have to feel bad about it. I don’t.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I’d still like to know,” Ranboo says. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>T</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>ommy watches them, then narrows his eyes. “Ranboo, are you asking me for blackmail material?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>No,” Ranboo laughs. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no if you have some, but that’s not - “</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Oh, I can give you blackmail material. I can give you so much shit on everyone back there – on one condition!” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Oh no.” Ranboo says. “Sure, what is it?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I want to know more about you,” Tommy says. “And you know, since you’ve already heard something from me, that means it’s your turn next. Have you gotten lost in L’manburg yet?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo sighs, a mix of relief and resignment. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>So many times</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. Nobody’s given me a map, I’ve been trying to figure it out as I go but then I forget so I just kind of follow everyone else around instead.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur perks up, “I could make you a map.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Please,”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Ranboo says, fumbling for his memory book. Tommy laughs at his expense, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay to ease his suffering by even a little. “I think they forget that I’m still new here, relatively speaking, t</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>hey’re not very considerate about directions. I once had to climb a house to get a view for a landmark, and I still managed to get turned around.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It’s very confusing,” Wilbur agrees, taking a moment to simply admire the book and its quill. “Tommy, can you double-check this for me afterwards? Just to make sure it’s all up-to-date.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I’ll do it now,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>” Tommy says, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>leaning over to look over Wilbur’s shoulder. “If you make a mistake you’re going to fuck up his book, and that’s just uncalled for.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>A lot has changed, Tommy realises as he watches Wilbur draw. Borders, landmarks, people; he wonders how different it’ll look in person, if it’ll feel stranger than it had in the aftermath of the explosions, when nothing had been the same. Tommy supposes that the only thing that’s stayed the same is change: friends and foes and presidents, houses and homes and vaults. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur’s movements lull. Tommy can hear his own breathing, and pauses mid-breath to say, “Wilbur?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur looks up from where the book is laid in his hands, the quill having fallen to the ground. “What?” He says. “What were we talking about?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>There’s an ink-blot on the page, permanent in its thoughtlessness. Despite that, Tommy can recognize it, and forces himself to look away from the blood that spills across the stone; from the button that marked the period to end it all. Ranboo meets his gaze and offers a sympathetic smile. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy looks away. “We were talking about the past,” He says – the book comes back into focus. “The recentish past. That looks good enough to me, are you finished with it?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>With what?” Wilbur asks, then follows Tommy’s gaze. “Oh!”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo takes his book back as though it’s become something precious, looking down upon it with a solemn thanks. “Does Wilbur get a turn? Or does it go back to Tommy next?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I don’t think Wilbur can remember much </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>else</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> to talk about,” Tommy says. “So I’ll just take his turn for him -” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’d like a turn,” Wilbur argues. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I could still talk about you,” Tommy says. “Something you probably don’t remember. You didn’t write down the details, did you?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I guess not,” Wilbur admits. “Alright then, go ahead.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Yes,” Tommy crows, </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and then falls silent. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>On the tip of his tongue are Wilbur’s words; the soaring speeches and the casual conversations, the raving and ranting and the singing and screaming. On the tip of his tongue are Techno’s words; the sleep-deprived drawl and the energized laughter, the insistence on safety barriers in the ravine and the death sentences on the battle-field. Tommy has more memories than he knows how to tell; even all the time isn’t enough to recall it all.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>History has changed them, he realizes. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>His memories are like phantoms in his mind. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Okay, Ranboo, so there’s this disc – Wilbur, you’re gonna have to help me gets the notes right, I’ve gotta do this justice, yeah?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The sun has long since set, but the night reduces their campfire to embers as Tommy stumbles over the notes and Wilbur corrects him. Ranboo mimics the way Tubbo </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>used to</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> hum the tune under his breath, and together they cobble a passable rendition of the entire song.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>They spend the rest of the night like that, trading moments back and forth. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>They talk until their voices wear thin, and then they whisper until even the morning creeping up on them is loud in comparison. Ranboo uses up the rest of their ink, and packs his book away with great care as he readies himself to leave. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Can I have one more turn?” Tommy asks, when they stand by the portal. “That way it’ll be yours if – when you come back. You can tell me if the map helps or not.”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo smiles, “Sure.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy tries to smile back and doesn’t quite manage it. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Someone once told me that I wasn’t selfish.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I remember that,” Ranboo says. “I meant it, you know? You’re not. I was – I could’ve said something earlier, but I was so scared because if it was bad for you it wasn’t going to be good for me, and then you lied for me and it seemed kind of rude to just… y’know?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy laughs, “I know. I think.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’ve realised something then though,” Ranboo says. </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>“I realized that if anything did happen to me it’d be okay because… we were in it together, yeah? We </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>are</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> in this together.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy’s eyes look brighter than they have in days, shimmering with gratitude. “I don’t remember if I ever thanked you,” He admits with a laugh. “Did I ever say thank you? It was very nice of you, it was… we’re friends, right?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo nods, “Friends.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Friends,” Tommy agrees softly, and does everything in his power to remember this moment.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’ll be back,” Ranboo swears, before he turns to go.</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Thank you.” Tommy says.</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Even as he leaves, he looks over his shoulder, mirroring Tommy’s smile. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy watches him go. He watches the portal long after Ranboo’s gone. The spark burning in his chest sputters out as soon as he’s alone. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em><span>I’ll be back</span></em></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>,” was the last thing Wilbur had ever said to him. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’s not sure if that’s better </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>or worse</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> than Tubbo’s goodbye. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>&lt;&gt;</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>T</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>ommy doesn’t notice when his communicator first falls from his wrist; his pulse catches in his wrist when he notices, but he’s already resigned himself to the loss of it. He hasn’t considered himself settled until he goes looking for it – the ground remembers where he prefers to walk, and he recalls the distance between steps easily. They fit together now; the wind sounds like itself, instead of someone else’s wings; the ocean breathes with him; the forest kindling and the caverns cages and the sand slipping through his fingers as he counts the days on his fingers and holds tight to the memories. It’s all he has left. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>His communicator’s remains lie forgotten in the ground, half-buried by the time Tommy remembers the place he’d </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>had it last. “There you are,” He says, laying out the fragments in his hands. It’s beaten and broken, the screen cracked and the shards scattered, and this time there’s nobody to go to in order to get it repaired. “That’s okay,” He whispers, with a bitter laugh. “I can handle myself, so what if I can’t call for help? This’ll just be… this’ll be a reason for them to come.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo had been the last person to leave him a message on it and he half-heartedly wonders if there’s any he’s left on read. A hopeful part of him says </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>yes;</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> a part that </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>knows</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> better answers </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>what does it matter if they can’t face you anyway?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What do we do now?” Tommy asks. He hums, contemplative, trying to mimic the idle sound the device used to make if he held it close to his ears. He can’t fix this by himself, nor can he make anything of what’s left. He doubts Wilbur or Ranboo will know any better than he does; he doubts Dream </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>will simply let him get it fixed. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>His communicator holds no response. It probably hasn’t for days – how has he managed to miss it for this long; how have the others managed to miss him for even longer? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Overhead the sun begins to set. Without a clock, he’s not sure of the exact time; he raises an empty hand to the sky and knows it’s too late to get anything else done with the day. Not that it matters much – come morning, anything he’s done will be taken from him. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy looks down at the fragments in his hands. He’s </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>mining less and less</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>; it’s easier to leave the veins where they are and move on, better to leave the land living than to let it die with him piece by piece. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He takes the bare minimum to get through the day, gives as much as is needed to keep Dream happy and ignores the stockpile of blue that Wilbur tends to throughout the night. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What am I </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>doing</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>?” Tommy asks, beginning to dig. He’s gotten good at that, quick and efficient, just as he has at making armour and make-shift weapons. He’s gotten good at picking Wilbur out of the silence; he’s gotten good at pinpointing where Dream approaches from. And yet being here is so much </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>worse</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, and Tommy’s shout echoes </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>as he throws the communicator into the pit.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It clatters against the stone. He wipes the mud on his hands against his shirt, and laughs at himself, “What am I even thinking? That it’s gonna spontaneously </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>combust?”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It doesn’t. It doesn’t do much of anything, really. Neither does Tommy: all he has left is a short-lived future cursed with immortality, ever-repeating. He could lead Dream here tomorrow, with everything already prepared, and then what? Do it again tomorrow? </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He can’t imagine anything beyond it. He wonders, if this place has changed with him so much – will he recognize anything when he goes back?</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The sun sets behind him. Tommy keeps his back to it. His attention is fixed on the layers of stone, he knows what rests beneath it and he can make a map in his mind and follow it with his eyes closed. He thinks of the chest tucked several feet away, of the disc still in his possession because of it. He’s keeping his iron </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>and gold</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> and diamonds wrapped in stone</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, their purpose yet to be realized. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He closes his eyes and leans back, an idea sparking to life in his mind like a constellation. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>A vault, he thinks. Planning ahead. It wouldn’t be hard – he can collect cobblestone in case the little he’s stored up is enough, and he’s seen plenty of examples to take inspiration from. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’s built tunnels before, how difficult can it be to build a room? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>
      <span>He died in disgrace,” </span>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Techno reminds him. Tommy scoffs. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>
      <span>Despised by his people.”</span>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em><span>But he saved everyone,” </span></em></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tubbo counters. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The defence is not for him.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy remembers the fire – white-hot from the withers – in Techno’s eyes when he’d told Tommy to die. Tommy remembers the rain – he’d wondered, later, if they were tears – masking Tubbo’s when he’d told Tommy goodbye. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy hadn’t managed to save anyone in L’manburg. And here, the only person left to save is himself. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>This is stupid,” Tommy decides, cradling his head in his hands. “I’m the last person that would ever need saving.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It’s not his time to die. It’s never his time to die.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Besides, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Dream would hate it: vaults are like trapped chests, promising sanctuary and delivering ruins. Tommy knows what betrayal is like, the sting of it still fresh each morning… would he really do that to one of the few friends he has left? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>There’s a disc missing from the collection in his end-chest. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>n its place is a compass, a piece of his heart locked </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>away</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>H</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>is communicator is still laid on the stone. His nails are caked in dirt. The world around him is still, but not entirely silent: it holds its breath with him, but the steady pulse of the ocean reaches him. Dream cares about the discs. Does Dream care about him too? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy doesn’t know what to believe. Tommy doesn’t know who to listen to anymore – himself, when Tubbo had exiled him to be heard? </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I’ve got to stop thinking before I gave myself a headache,” He mutters to himself, getting to his feet. Wilbur will be waiting for him; Tommy will be waiting for Dream in the morning. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He gets three steps before he stops. He doesn’t look back, but he does stare down at his hands, frowning in contemplation. It’s not even a plan, just an idea. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>Tommy decides to save it for when he’s ready to choose.</p>
<p>&lt;&gt;</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“Tubbo?”</p>
<p>Silence. Tommy isn’t surprised, it’s the treatment he’s come to expect since his exile, but he’s confused. Why visit him just to avoid him? He’s not mistaken, he <em>can’t</em> be mistaken. He knows he’s seen the wrong shade of green at the treeline, he’s heard a hitched breath over the winds. He’s <em>seen</em> Tubbo.</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Tommy,” Wilbur says, coming to float next to him. Without asking, he follows Tommy’s gaze, lifting off the ground in a mimicry of standing on his tip-toes, “How come you’ve stopped here? Am I missing something?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Aren’t we all?” Tommy mutters, the words tight as his heart tenses. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What are you looking at?” Wilbur continues, peering over his shoulder. “Oh! Are we just looking at the scenery? It is looking lovely today, it’s very picturesque.” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’m not seeing shit,” Tommy defends, then reconsiders. “Actually I might be – Wilbur, do you see anything over there?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur turns </span>
  <span>to look at him, then turns back</span>
  <span>. After a moment, he shakes his head, “Not anything different, why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps sound behind them. </span>
  <span>Tommy glances over his shoulder, trying to clear the frown on his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Dream’s head is cocked, the smile of his mask crooked. He looks between them both, hands stuffed in his pockets, “Am I missing out on something?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Dream,” Tommy says, and points. “Do you see anything over there?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>“<span>I see trees, and I see grass,” Dream says slowly. “What am I supposed to be looking for?” </span></p>
<p>“<span>Tubbo,” Tommy says, something like a plea in his voice. He makes to move, but he can’t decide whether to go for the compass in his chest or towards the portal before his friend is gone. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>Dream makes the choice for him, grasping his arm and keeping him still. “</span>
  <em>Tubbo?”</em>
  <span> He asks incredulously, stepping ahead to regard the forest-line dubiously. “Well, no, I definitely don’t see </span>
  <em>anyone </em>
  <span>over there. Did you see something happen to the portal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy kicks the back of his foot, shaking his head. “Not the portal, I saw someo – I saw Tubbo. He was – he was over there, I know I saw him.” </span>
</p>
<p>“<span>I don’t see anyone,” Dream says. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been there </span><span>either</span><span>.”</span></p>
<p>“<span>Do you think he left already?” Tommy asks, looking from Dream to Wilbur. “Why would he come here just to leave?”</span></p>
<p>“<span>Why don’t we go look?” Wilbur says. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to disturb us, and we can go find out!”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy tears himself from Dream’s side, following Wilbur along the path that leads to the portal. They split up from there, scanning the vicinity for any trace of anyone around. There’s nothing. There’s nobody. </span>
</p>
<p>“<span>It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here recently,” Dream says when he joins them, voice soft and steps hesitant. He regards the both of them searching warily, a hand on the hilt of his axe, even though it’s not dark enough for mobs yet. </span></p>
<p>“<span>I don’t understand.” Tommy whispers. “I saw him, I </span><em>swear</em><span> I saw him -” </span></p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Wilbur places his hands on </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy’s shoulders. “We believe you, it’s okay! You know, I see things sometimes too; I think it’s a ghost thing.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy scoffs, “Do I look like a ghost to you?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>No,” Dream says. “Are you okay, Tommy?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’m fine,” Tommy sighs, looking to the portal. Feeling Dream’s gaze on his back, he amends it to: “I’ll </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>be</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> fine.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Dream doesn’t seem convinced, “Are you sure?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy doesn’t answer. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Here,” Wilbur says, picking up the silence and tossing it aside. “How about we go get some blue, and then we can finish decorating for the party? You’ll probably see him then, and then everything will be fine!”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy musters the energy for a smile, and they don’t bring it up again. But when they’re both done entertaining him, gone to mind their own business while he’s supposed to </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>be a</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>sleep, he wanders back to the portal, wondering how it could possibly be easier to forget than forgive.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He sits at the base of it, listening to the warbling lamenting. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’s never listened to it closely, but he lets it drown out any other sound for the rest of the night. Nothing comes through it. Nobody comes to visit him. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Yet no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>&lt;&gt;</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span>Do you really believe that it’s pity?”</span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy jolts. So does the arc of his swing, the peak of it pulling him backwards as he overbalances, startling the torchlight into shrinking into the scone that pins it to the wall. By now he’s worn the torch down to a mere ember; fading fixtures marking the walls </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and his tool threatening to fall apart even as he spares it from collapsing to the ground. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Holy shit,” He breathes, shaking his head until the smudges in his vision retreat to the corners. “</span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo, what the fuck, man, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>did you come here thinking ‘</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>
      <span>oh, he looks vulnerable, let’s give him a scare’</span>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> because I can make you regret doing that – I can and I will, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>
      <span>what the fuck</span>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>H</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>is voice echoes down the tunnel, a fair distance across spiralling caverns. He’s still yet to carve his own path through them, unafraid of losing a few hours trying to get out but terrified of the urge to tunnel back home. Ranboo is a bridge across the nothing between them, and that will have to be enough – Tommy can wield his pickaxe of netherite, but he can’t use it to make a path home. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Ranboo?” Tommy calls, forgetting to swing as his heart skips a beat. Now that he’s lost his focus several aches and pains demand to make themselves known. Spite makes him consider throwing the pick in a pit tomorrow morning. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I’m still here,” Ranboo answers. “I haven’t gone anywhere, you just didn’t answer my question.” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I don’t have to, do I?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Not really.” Ranboo says. “But you might as well.”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Might I?” Tommy scoffs, continuing to chip away at the coal. “You did come all this way, I suppose, although. Really, Ranboo? Is that really all you wanted? Did you really come all of this way just to ask </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>that?”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ranboo laughs with uncertainty, “Are you going to tell me you don’t have an answer?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>You chose a bit of a shitty question,” Tommy says. “Seriously – ‘</span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Do you really believe it’s pity?’ - </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>What does that even </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>mean?”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Dream’s your friend, right?” Ranboo says. “Am I your friend?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What?” Tommy glances over his shoulder, worrying his lip. “Of course you’re my friend – both of you are. You still want to be my friend, right? Not that it really matters, you can’t get rid of me that easily, bitch.”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Good,” Ranboo says. “That’s good… I guess I’m just </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>confused.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>I know that feeling,” Tommy mutters. “What do you even have to be confused about?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>“Well I don’t have a lot of friends,” Ranboo starts. “But I don’t think I’ve even had enemies who’d do the things he does.”</p>
<p>“You have enemies?” Tommy asks.</p>
<p>“Maybe not here,” Ranboo concedes.</p>
<p>“What’d you mean by the things he does anyway?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I mean… Dream’s your friend, and I’m your friend.” Ranboo takes a breath, “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>But he comes here to blow up your things and I come here and help you get stuff, and he tells you these awful things and I have to tell you otherwise, and you’re always missing me </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>yet</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> you’re always on the verge of telling me to go away </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and I want to be a good friend and I don’t know how to be.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>“I don’t think anyone does,” Tommy admits. “Not even me. But I still know more than you, and I don’t really get what you’re getting at here.”</p>
<p>“I’m not getting at anything. I’m just trying to understand.”</p>
<p>“Understand <em>what</em>? What is there to understand?”</p>
<p>“You. Why you believe he’s your friend but you doubt me.”</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy snatches up the torch and brandishes it through the caves, a hiss caught between his gritted teeth as he storms his way out of the nook. Ten steps in, he realises he doesn’t know where Ranboo’s voice is coming from and pauses, looking around. A pool of lava around the corner bathes the room in a dim light; only his shadow follows him as he searches for a sign of somebody nearby. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Somewhere through the walls, a zombie groans. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Ranboo?” Tommy calls. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>His only answer is his own voice echoing off the walls.</p>
<p>&lt;&gt;</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He hears, before anything else. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>There’s a murmur, tangible against his ear – </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>as though someone’s put their hands over his ears, a steady pressure embracing him</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. He tries to tell it to go away, to call back the sleep leaving him; his voice is stuck in his throat, washed away into nothing. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>Reality shakes him awake. His eyes open to a harsh sting, the foliage of the ocean waving lazily.</p>
<p>His hands flail, weighted down, and he doesn’t find a grip but he does find a direction, reaching for the rope-link streaks of light that flutter in the water and pulling himself to the surface. Somehow, he manages to follow the tide to the shore, and there he lays, unable to fathom getting up. He’s cold and struggling to breathe, as though he’s dragged the ocean with him rather than been spit out by it.</p>
<p>Something dark approaches the edge of his vision; he’s not sure whether to welcome the rest of it when the world comes into terrible focus.</p>
<p>Wilbur approaches him with a knowing smile, hands shoved in the pockets of his lost trench-coat and head tilted to the side. When he speaks, it’s clear, too impatient for something like echoes, “Hello.”</p>
<p>“Go away,” Tommy says – he doesn’t even know if he manages a single word of it, choking on a cough. “You’re not real, <em>go away</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Tommy,” Wilbur chuckles, sitting down and letting his arms rest over his knees. Tommy shuts his eyes; shields them with his hands for good measure. Wilbur laughs, “Come on now, that’s a bit soon for a goodbye, isn’t it? You’re not even going to talk me now, after every other time you’ve tried?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>You never said goodbye,” Tommy snaps. “You said </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>you’d be back</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, you said we’d won, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>fuck you</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Not even your stupid ghost stayed! Was it worth it? All of this for, what, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>nothing?”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p><span>“<span><span>It’s not nothing,” </span></span></span><span><span><span>Wilbur says, making to pat him on the back. Tommy flinches away.</span></span></span><span><em><span> It’s not real</span></em></span><span><span><span>, he thinks, and there should be comfort in that, in</span></span></span> <span><span><span>the reality that his brother is gone. </span></span></span><span><span><span>Isn’t that a good thing? </span></span></span><span><span><span>That the man who had blown up </span></span></span><span><span><span>L’</span></span></span><span><span><span>manburg, he </span></span></span><span><span><span>isn't</span></span></span><span><span><span> coming back; but neither is the man who had sparked revolution in his heart, </span></span></span><span><span><span>he’s gone too. “</span></span></span><span><span><span>Just because it isn’t done doesn’t mean it’s </span></span></span><span><em><span>nothing</span></em></span><span><span><span>.”</span></span></span></p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What would you know about it?” Tommy says, looking over Wilbur’s shoulder to the sunrise rising above the horizon, golden beginning to burn through the sky like the wings of a phoenix. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>you</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> do,” Wilbur answers smugly. “You know that I’m right.” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>You have never been more wrong.” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>What would you know about it?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t know, he’s not sure he wants to: “Do you remember what it’s like to die?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Does it matter?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Yes!”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Why?”</span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Is it like </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>that?”</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Tommy cries, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>shivering against the shore</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> – he can smell ash and smoke, can see his vision blur as though he’s staring straight into lava. “What’s it like to die, Wilbur?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Oh, Tommy.” Wilbur says, sitting </span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>cross-legged </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>before him. Shades of his ghost surface – splintered by the sharp edges of his smile, the tension in his posture. He is a vision of smoke and ash and death; the blood and sweat and tears that had built the ends to the means. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>It’s like folding, Tommy. You lose.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy freezes. “What?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>“I can’t gain anything, Tommy. I’m dead.” Wilbur laughs, “I am exiled from the plane of the living, Tommy. Fucked from the minute we were thrown out, remember?”</p>
<p>Tommy rolls onto his side, watching the last stars sink below the ocean.</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>You could’ve drowned out there,” Wilbur says</span></span></span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> softly, musing. “</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Do you think it would have</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> made you forget the fire?” </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>I don’t know,” Tommy admits. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<span><span>Do you think you’d forget Dream trying to get on your good side?” </span></span></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Tommy blinks, “What?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what he’s doing to you, Tommy.” Wilbur says. Tommy can feel a phantom ruffle of his hair. “He did it to me, you know. All of this is just a stage to him. A backdrop. The real prison is inside your head, Tommy, he’s going to lock you up in there and get you to throw away the only key there is.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be like you,” Tommy sobs, shrieks – yet all he can hear is a strained whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur smiles at him, gentle. “You’re not, Tommy. You’re like L’manburg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That smile turns bitter. When he speaks, Tommy can’t hear Wilbur’s voice, “L’manburg can be independent, </span>
  <span>Tommy, </span>
  <span>
    <em>you</em>
  </span>
  <span> can be independent.</span>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy can’t hear Logstedshire. Tommy can’t hear L’manburg. He can’t even hear </span>
  <span>
    <em>himself</em>
  </span>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur smiles at him. His lips don’t move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we can never be free.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
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